You Don't Understand
by mazzer.18
Summary: John finds a disturbing diary and vows to help its owner. Friendship, romance, fluff and angst ensue. Femlock, teenlock, johnlock, boarding school AU.
1. Chapter 1 (prologue-9 months previously)

I stroked the silky blue ribbon slowly, feeling Mycroft's eyes on me; I couldn't bring myself to look up.

"Happy birthday Sherlock" he said quietly; I still didn't look at him, instead keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the large parcel in my hands. The silver grey tissue paper crinkled under my touch, crackling as I untied the ribbon; inside was a plain black cardboard box, bearing the insignia of one of Mycroft's more exclusive London tailors, a coat then.

Obvious.

I opened the box slowly, and lifted it out by the shoulders; _oh_, not just a coat, an exquisitely beautiful coat.

"Thank you, it's beautiful", he didn't answer; just took the coat from me and held it so I could slide my arms into the silk lined sleeves. My fingers smoothed over the fabric slowly, and did up the buttons one by one; I turned to see the mirror on the wall next to the oak wardrobe. Black wool hugged my torso but flared dramatically at the waist; the coat was beautiful, and just for a moment, so was I. Smiling slightly, I looked back at Mycroft, and even though he didn't smile back at me, I could see he was pleased.

"One more thing", louder this time, _oh please no_.

"No," I paused and inhaled deeply, trying to quell the surge of panic rising up in my chest, "no."

"Sherlock, may I remind you that cooperation was the condition under which you were allowed to return home? Your therapist has requested that you write a journal, in order to aid your recovery. I'm afraid you don't have a choice." And with that he swept out of my room as if nothing happened, leaving a black, rectangular object on the duvet, definitely a diary. Hanging my beautiful new coat carefully on a hanger, I picked up the diary; it was small, but thick; containing many pages, and bound in sleek black leather. I turned it over slowly in my hands, and only then did I notice my initials, SH, inlaid in curly silver letters; I sighed with annoyance at this, no denying ownership to avoid nosy teachers or pupils then. Oh dear. But I knew I had to do it, because anything was better than being sent back to the London Adolescent Psychiatric Unit. So I got out my fountain pen, the solid silver one engraved with my name that Mummy gave me for Christmas two years ago, and began to write.

I wrote and wrote and wrote that day, pouring out all my feelings onto creamy white pages; hurt, confusion, hope, anxiety, hatred and disappointment, all laid bare in swirls of black ink. I didn't even notice how long I'd sat at my desk until I realised I was squinting to see the page in the greying light of a January up somewhat stiffly, I pulled my new coat from the hanger and took my violin case from its table; stopping only to sip from yesterday's coffee mug, I climbed out the window, onto the balcony and up to the roof. I stroked the velvet lining of the case, before lifting the violin to my shoulder, and pouring a beautifully sad melody out onto the snow. When I finished, I climbed back down over the balcony and through the window, only to come face to face with Mycroft.

"Don't, don't do it, I know what that piece means Sherlock; you don't have to do this to yourself", I sighed inwardly, _I do, doesn't he see? Why can't he understand?_ I didn't answer him; instead I laid my violin case back on its table and went back outside onto the roof. It was cold outside, but through my black coat and blue cashmere scarf I hardly felt it; lighting up countless cigarettes as the grey evening faded into an inky black night.

When pink streaks of dawn lit up the sky, I slid inside and down into the kitchen to find coffee and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was nanny to both Mycroft and myself, and over the years she just seems to have stayed, and I suppose in a way she tries to make up for our mother being somewhat absent in spirit. I slid into my chair at the huge kitchen table, which felt strangely empty with just me sitting at it, and Mrs. Hudson placed my stripy coffee mug in front of me.

"Toast? You need to eat breakfast occasionally dear, and you've got lots to do today." _Yes, I have, lots, I can't believe that pompous git Mycroft is actually going to take me to therapy himself, and then there's the drive back to school,_ I ranted silently to myself. Out loud, I mumbled something about feeling nauseous and retreated with my mug to get dressed.

I showered with my eyes closed, it hurt too much to have to look at myself, it's disgusting, and I hate it, so I tried my best to forget, to forget the pale pink and silvery grey lines that cover my arms and hips and stomach, to forget the reminders of all the times I'd failed.

When the water finally ran cold, I dried and dressed in my favourite soft black pencil skirt, and long sleeved purple silk shirt, carefully buttoning the cuffs to hide my forearms. I tried to smile at the mirror, but I couldn't make it reach my eyes, and my reflection just grimaced at me.

In the car on the way to Doctor Gates' office, Mycroft lectured. He told me that this term I can make a new start (I rolled my eyes at this, but remained silent); that this was my chance to be a better person, to make friends. As I listened to him, I could feel my eyes burning, but I refused to cry, refused to show that kind of weakness. I swallowed, and thought about the last case I assisted on at Scotland Yard, a strange murder, emulating a well known cult in a pathetic attempt by a greedy husband to hide the obvious fact that he murdered his wife for her money. Simple, why they even needed my help on that case I don't know; idiots, the lot of them, even DI Lestrade, but I tolerate him because I need him to let me in on cases. I sent him a text; I had intended to skip out on therapy and head down there this morning, before going back to school over an hour away, in Kent.

Lestrade, sorry, but I can't make it down today. I leave for school this afternoon, but please feel free to contact me via phone or skype. SH

He didn't reply. I didn't expect him to; he was busy that day, even more so without the help he was expecting.

When the car pulled up at the office, I got out slowly; preparing myself to resist the burn of tears that I knew would threaten to fall.

It was a hundred times worse than I had anticipated.

On the drive to school, even Mycroft seemed to appreciate my need for silence, and admirably said not a word until we got there, when he pounced on me, grabbing my arm and undoing the button holding the cuff down. _Oh no, he can't see this, I can't spend another term in psychiatric care, I just can't_; but I didn't struggle, it was pointless, I know when I am beaten; the thoughts raced in my head, a steam engine out of control, but I tried valiantly to keep my face calm.

When he finally managed to extract my wrist from the sleeve, he breathed in sharply, taking in the mixture of both fresh cuts and scars that covered my wrist. Like measuring lines to quantify failure. I snatched my wrist away and grabbed my suitcase; as I began to walk away, Mycroft tried one last time.

"Sherlock? Please, are you alright?" he voice was uncharacteristically soft, and pained, _he's hurting_, I realised with a jolt.

"Of course I'm fine, I am fine."


	2. Chapter 2

It was a long summer. Some days I felt like it would never end. By the time September rolled around, I was just as eager to get back to school as I had been to get home back home in July. I was tired of having to hide Harry's drinking from our Mum, tired of hiding Mum's drinking from Harry.

I know it sounds terrible, but I couldn't wait to get back to school, to distance myself from their problems.

I hated myself for thinking that, it felt so dirty and cowardly to want to escape your own family's problems, but I just couldn't cope with it. Sighing, I stood up from the park bench I had crashed on after my run, and walked home slowly to finish packing.

I didn't have many things to pack after my school uniform and rugby kit, so it didn't take me very long to finish loading everything into my two bags. When Harry came in, I was sitting on the bed, staring out of the window; wishing away the minutes until it was time to get the train back to school.

"Hey Johnnie", I winced slightly; I hated it when Harry called me that, "listen, before you go back to school, I wanted to let you know I'm sorry, about everything." She paused, looking at me anxiously as she slid a small silver object into my hand. "And this is for you, don't be a stranger." And with that she was gone, just as quickly as she arrived.

I turned the phone over in my hand; it was a nice phone, fairly new too, so why had Harry given it to me? Then I saw the inscription. _Oh_. The phone she had bought to talk to Clara while she was away at university. No wonder Harry had wanted to get rid of it.

Tucking the phone into the side pocket of my rucksack, I surveyed my room, checking for anything I'd missed, nothing. I sagged with the realisation that I was intentionally wasting time, hoping that Mum would get back in time to say goodbye. Sad that.

I looked at the clock hung on the wall, time to leave; scribbling a note to Mum on the whiteboard in the kitchen; I loaded my suitcase into the boot of Harry's car, and stared stoically ahead as we pulled onto the road towards the train station.

When the taxi pulled up at the school gates, I paid the driver (trying hard not to wince at the amount) and dragged my suitcase and rucksack into the main reception to find out what room I've been assigned.

"Hi, I'm John Watson, year twelve, can you tell me my room number please?" I said politely to the vacant looking receptionist. She nodded and began shuffling through a large pile of paperwork, eventually appearing to find the one she was looking for.

"Right, here we go, John Watson, block A, room 96. That's on floor 2. Here's your key. Have a good year" She said, whilst failing to appear as if she cared.

"Right. Will do. Thanks." I replied, with equal lack of enthusiasm.

I made my way to block A, housing all the boy's rooms - the girls are in block B - my progress slowed by the weight of my suitcase. When I reached the door of room 96, I knocked firmly, in case my roommate was already there, and a familiar voice called out to me.

"Come on in, it's open!" Shouted Greg. Greg is my mate, we were on the rugby team together last year, and it was a relief to know I had a roommate I got on well with.

Pushing open the stout wooden door, I entered the room. We were on floor two, reserved for the senior students in the sixth form, so it was our first year there. Looking around me I smiled broadly, the room was about three times as big as the one I'd shared last year.

"Hey Greg, good summer?" Greg looked up from folding his rugby kit.

"John! Good to see you mate. Yeah it was cool thanks, visited the grandparents, went to Italy for a few weeks; you?" My heart sank, I hated answering questions like that, especially to the posh gits that can actually afford to go to this school, and I hated having to explain why I didn't go on holiday anywhere exotic, like they did.

"Ah just a quiet one, but it was alright thanks" Greg seemed satisfied with that answer and went back to unpacking. We chattered aimlessly about football and rugby over dinner in the dining hall, we ate alone because we were so late, and by the time we had walked back to our room, the conversation had turned to girls.

"Meet any hot ones in Italy?" I teased mildly.

"A few, yeah" said Greg, winking at me in a mockingly seductive fashion. At this, we both broke into fits of laughter. But when we were sitting on out beds, Greg suddenly became more serious. I stared at him for a moment, confused by his sudden shift o mood.

"You alright mate?" I asked, trying to appear casual.

"Yeah, yeah; fine." He paused, then took a deep breath and continued. "Listen John, I'm probably not supposed to tell you this, but I was talking to my dad the other day, and he told me something really cool." I leaned in intrigued, as his dad is a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard; stuff like this from Greg is almost always fascinating.

"Go on" I said quietly, almost a whisper.

"Right, yeah. Okay so he told me right, that this kid contacted him one day, just texted him, no idea how she got his number..."

"Wait, she?"

"Yes John, she. Now shut up and let me finish."

"Okay, sorry." I mumbled.

"Yeah; right; so anyway, this girl just texted him out of the blue, with the answer to this case that'd had everyone stumped for over a week." Greg paused, and stared at me expectantly.

"Wow, you serious?"

"Oh yeah, this was like a year ago and apparently she's been popping up ever since. Solving crimes and whatnot. My dad says she likes to call herself a consulting detective."

"That is so cool; do you know how old she is?"

"My dad said about fifteen, wasn't sure though, she's never said. Mate I don't even know her name, my dad wouldn't tell me so I don't know why you're bothering with that."

"Alright, alright, no need to get snippy! I just wondered how old she was, because I mean solving all those crimes by yourself, that's amazing, but at fifteen? Wow."

"Yeah, I reckon she must be pretty cool, I'd like to meet her one day."

"Me too mate. Me too."


	3. Chapter 3

Some things never change, like the way Mycroft feels the need to remind me to try to make a friend, to remind me that this is my last chance to change, to turn things around.

I zoned out after a few phrases, it hurt too much to hear; I couldn't wait to get to school, to get away from him and his constant reminders that I need to change to be worthy of love, that just being me isn't good enough.

Mycroft insisted on coming in with me, even though I didn't need help carrying my luggage, as his assistant, Anthea had already had it delivered that morning; scarily efficient, my brother.

When we entered the reception, the receptionist handed Mycroft a key in silence, she didn't even have to take my name for goodness sake; I sighed inwardly, interfering git. He led the way to block B, and I followed blindly, all the way to the door of room two hundred and twenty one, on the top floor where the single rooms reserved for the sixth formers in year twelve and thirteen are. _Why am I here, I'm only in year eleven_, I wondered. Without even asking, Mycroft seems to understand my unspoken question.

"I took the liberty of arranging for you to have a single room" I was almost pleased, until he gave in to the temptation to add a parting insult, "don't worry Sherlock, it's more for the sake of your potential roommate than for yours." And with that he was gone, and I watched him out of the window, meandering slowly back to the car, twirling his umbrella in the breeze.

But I didn't cry; well not until the door was locked.

By the time I had composed myself, washed my face with cold water and unpacked, I realised that it was too late to go to supper, not that I was hungry, but I had been hoping to look for Molly.

Molly tolerates me, and sometimes we meet up in the abandoned science lab to do experiments, which is nice. _No matter_, I thought, _I'll be in her chemistry class this year_, even though she was sixteen, a year older than me, and in year twelve while I was in year eleven, (I was being allowed to take an A Level chemistry class that year, in the school's pathetic attempt to curb my boredom), _so I'll see her around _I supposed.

By nine o'clock, I had finished cataloguing hiding places in my room, smoked three cigarettes whilst hanging out the window, made two mugs of coffee in the kitchen down the hallway, organised my sock index, set up my computer, and spoken to no one. Sighing, I settled down in the softly upholstered armchair by the window, and withdrew my diary from my leather satchel. Flicking through the entries I'd written since my fifteenth birthday in January, I almost cried again.

Licking the nib of my pen to let the ink flow, I wrote the date carefully on a new page, and stared at it, trying to think of what to say. The trouble was, there were too many things, too much pain. The pain of guilt and failure, the pain of knowing I'd always be alone, and the pain of knowing I'd never find someone to love me. The anguish that came with knowing that my heart was icy cold; that I was a freak. I pushed my diary away and pulled my penknife up from under the floorboard.

I drew the blade slowly over the pale skin of my thigh, watching blood well up in bright red beads.

I woke up stiff from sleeping in my chair; with salt crusted on my cheeks, blood crusted on my leg and ink on my fingers. After showering and dressing whilst avoiding the mirror - an impressive feat, I think - I took a pack of cigarettes, a mug of sweet black coffee and my diary up onto the roof of the old science block to watch the school wake up.

My leg felt with it was being stabbed as I curled up to sit down on the ground, but I took a deep breath and tried to ignore it, knowing I deserved to be hurting, that I had no right to complain. So I tried to distract myself with the latest case I'd been working on for Lestrade - he'd emailed me the details the previous evening - the serial 'suicides' as the police were calling them. Idiots. It was obviously a serial killer.

By the time I'd stubbed out the last cigarette on the miserable tarmac roof, it was time to start the school year, time for the first assembly.

Sitting in the hall, surrounded by two thousand, dull, ordinary idiots, I was still thinking about the case, and I had a break through. The case! Yes, Jennifer Wilson's case, the key to finding the killer. Of course, how could I have missed this? Eager to text Lestrade, I ran out of the hall immediately after the closing comment by the Headmaster; and only when I was halfway back to block B and room two hundred and twenty one did I realise how irreparably stupid I had been. I left my diary under my chair in the hall.

Running all the way back, I snuck back into the now empty hall and checked under the chair I had been sitting in. My diary was gone. _Shit_.

I very nearly didn't make it back to the roof before I started to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

I silenced the alarm with a hefty whack, sending it spinning across the floor.

"Hey" mumbled Greg sleepily, "my alarm clock."

I pulled the duvet over my face in an attempt to block out the sunlight streaming through the thin blue curtains.

"Sorry" I said, muffled through the thick duvet. After several minutes, I abandoned all attempts at more sleep and stumbled into the shower. The hot water was soothing, but after several minutes it dawned on me. Dammit! I realised with a jolt, trust me and Greg to be the only sixth formers without private rooms. Having a roommate would put a serious dampener on any and all attempts at romance. I growled at my flannel in irritation, so much for this being the year to get lucky, I thought bitterly.

When Greg started banging on the door, I turned off the water, and wrapped myself in a fluffy new towel, stared in the mirror; revelling in the novelty of newly bulked up muscles.

Flexing a newly formed bicep proudly, I dug around in by new old blue wash bag for my shiny new razor. That was a novelty too, shaving; still something new and exciting, something to feel a little bit proud of. Greg was really hammering on the door now, and reluctantly I hitched my towel a little higher over my hips and exited the small bathroom; only to be faced with a very angry looking roommate.

"Jesus christ John!" muttered Greg, teasingly, "What the bloody hell where you doing in there you vain prat?" I smirked as he disappeared into the shower, leaving him to assume whatever he wanted; the dirty minded bastard.

I was halfway through a hearty plate of toast and scrambled eggs in the dining hall when Greg plonked himself down opposite me, complete with an enormous bacon sandwich.

"Her skirt's got shorter again mate" he said quietly, nodding slightly to his right. Following his gaze, my eyes landed on Irene Adler, headgirl, leaning sideways against the wall, with her hip stuck out at an alarmingly alluring angle, chatting to a small crowd of friends.

"Mate she is fit!" I breathed, trying and failing to tear my gaze away.

"John."

"Mmm, what?" I mumbled, almost in danger of drooling into my breakfast.

"Mate you're staring; not cool." Greg gave me a stern look.

"Oh shit, s...sorry" I stuttered, looking down at my plate of eggs.

"Dear god you are hooked!" He said, rolling his eyes at me, "did you not get ANY this Summer?"

Blushing, I shook my head, embarrassed. Greg just stared at me in disappointment.

"You, mate, have let me down" he said slowly, before tucking into his bacon sandwich with gusto.

Assembly followed immediately after breakfast, and the combination of an early start and a good meal turned out to do very little for the attention span, and I missed the majority of what was said. In fact I remember almost nothing about it until the end.

I was left to leave the hall on my own, Greg having rushed off to an early tutor group meeting; and just as I was about to leave, coincidentally last out of everyone, Mr Manson called me back.

"Watson!"

"Yes sir?"

"Under that chair at the back" he gestured vaguely with his arm, "a book; you see it?" I nodded quickly. "Good, do be so kind as to find out whose it is and give it back to them? Thank you." And with that he was gone, sweeping away imperiously.

Sighing softly, I went and retrieved the book. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a notebook, a posh one; bound in soft black leather. Expensive looking. Turning it over, the only signs of identification could be found of the front, just two letters, SH, inlaid in a beautiful silver cursive.

SH...SH, frowning, I tried to identify the initials, but my brain was drawing blanks. _Dammit, why on earth did it have to be me saddled with the responsibility of finding the posh idiot who left their notebook behind?_ Groaning, I shoved the book into my already overflowing schoolbag, and headed off to biology.

At quarter past four, slightly later than usual, I collapsed through the door of my room to find Greg already there; sprawled on the floor and frowning at his calculator.

"Need any help?" I offered kindly, it was kind of a thing with me and Greg, I helped him with maths and in return he went for runs with me to keep me company.

"Not, today, I think I'm getting there, thanks anyway though" he said without looking up from the sheets scattered all over the floor.

"Fine, whatever" I answered, swinging my bag onto the desk Greg seemed to have rejected and going to pull out my chemistry folder; _I had tons of homework to do_, I thought, _may as well get on with it_. I didn't even notice that it had fallen out until I realised Greg was waving it in my face.

"What's this?" Asked Greg, looking puzzled. I glanced down, and was just turning back to chemistry when I did a double take, the notebook. _Shit_, I'd forgotten about that.

"I dunno, teacher found it after assembly and told me to give it back to its owner; only trouble is, I don't know whose it is."

"Oh" said Greg slowly, "that is a problem. You tried reading it see if it says who it belongs to inside?"

"No, I didn't like to, I mean what if it's some poor sod's diary or something?"

"Mate if you don't read it you won't ever find out who S bloody H is, so just do it, give the damn thing back and then forget this ever happened. Easy." Greg sounded annoyed now, probably also to do with the fact that he was still stuck on the same maths problem he'd been doing when I came in, but was too proud to ask for help, (_or just doesn't want to be dragged out of bed at six in the morning to go running_, I thought, smiling slightly at myself).

"Fine. Fine, whatever you say." I mumbled grudgingly, if only to get him to shut up.

"Good." And with that, Greg returned his focus to maths and didn't speak again until dinner time, unusual for him. I sighed and opened my chemistry folder, chewing the end of a pen thoughtfully; but I couldn't concentrate, I couldn't stop wondering what I might find if I opened the notebook.

Late that night; when Greg was snoring soft on the other side of the room, I slipped slowly out of bed, and sat at the desk in the t shirt and red boxers I'd put on to go to bed.

In the dim light cast by my phone, I opened the book to the first page.

_6__th__ January_

_Today is my 15__th__ birthday, should that make me feel happy? I don't know. I did like my new coat though; my other present, this diary, not so much. I know I have to write though, he made that quite clear, "do as she says, she's a professional, she knows what she's doing", well that and threatening to send me back to the Adolescent Psychiatric unit if I refuse to cooperate. _

_So here I am, weak and stupid for trying to believe that swirling ink onto paper will fix anything._

I gasped; oh god, it was someone's diary, I couldn't read any more, I decided swiftly. But I couldn't stop; I flicked through several more pages, finding an entry from April.

_11__th__April _

_Not a good day._

_Just got send home from the hospital to a lecture from Mycroft and the indignity of having my room searched for sharp instruments. I mean honestly, would he rather I took cocaine or something? They even found the razor blade sewn into the lining of my coat._

_This wasn't supposed to happen, I made a mistake, cut too deep and passed out on the bathroom floor in block B._

Oh god, no, what on earth am I doing, I asked myself angrily, violating this girls privacy like this? But somehow I just couldn't put it down.

_9__th__ July _

_Back to London for the summer, dear god a whole summer my fat git of a brother, telling me what I already know, reminding me how worthless I am, what a terrible person I am. Making me think sometimes that maybe I'd be better off dead_

_Holy shit_, I breathed softly, _oh my god, I have to find her_.


	5. Chapter 5

After I realised my mistake, I ran. And I didn't stop until I was up on the roof. There I could cry, there I could be weak, where there was no one to see me.

When the tears had dried, I did the only two things that made me feel better. I lit up a cigarette and settled in to observe.

That girl with blonde hair, her parents were recently divorced, her uniform was scruffy and too small, but she was wearing an expensive silver bracelet, so mother having a hard time financially following the separation, and father buying expensive gifts out of guilt. Simple.

I lost count of all the things I observed and deduced that day, but it calmed me; tethered me to reality.

By the time the sky began to turn grey, I felt stiff from sitting on hard concrete, and I'd smoked all the cigarettes I'd rationed for that half term. Dusting off my coat, I pulled out my phone and tapped out a text to Molly on my way to the old science lab; where I stored most of my equipment, where Molly sometimes met me to assist in my experimentations.

Science lab. Come at once if convenient. SH

I paused, chewing my lip, and added

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

A few minutes later, I was climbing through the window into the abandoned science, and setting up titration equipment, when my phone buzzed on the wooden bench.

Coming. Molly

I smiled and turned to fill up the small travel kettle at the sink. I kept it in the science lab in case the need ever arose for coffee in the small hours. Setting out two mugs, a dark blue one for me and a hideous pink floral one for Molly, I silently hoped she'd remembered the milk; that was Molly's contribution to refreshments in the lab. Milk. I never brought milk.

Molly arrived just as I was pouring hot water into the silver teapot, (that had been a Christmas present from Mycroft, just like the science equipment and biscuit tin I also kept in the cupboard) bearing a small bottle of milk.

"Thought you might need this" said Molly, smiling and pouring milk into mugs. "I know you'd never bother to ask for any from the kitchen staff yourself" she added, giggling slightly.

Over the next few hours, we tested eleven known substances, allowing us to identify the four unknown ones; we didn't talk much, but I don't think either of us minded. We never were ones to chatter, Molly and I.

By quarter past eleven, Molly was stifling yawns with her calculator, and at half past she had washed up the empty mugs, swept up the biscuit crumbs and gone to bed. Leaving me to identify the last three unknown substances alone. I made myself some sweet black coffee, grabbed a chocolate digestive and began measuring samples into test tubes. Without Molly, I worked slower, doing more repeats for better accuracy, and taking more time over calculations, and by the time I was satisfied I looked at my watch and was only slightly surprised to see that it was nearly half past six in the morning. By hurrying to pack away the equipment, I was in my shower in the boarding house just after seven, taking refuge in the hot water.

I waited until the mirror was misted up before I got out, I didn't want to look at myself, I didn't have time to cry.

I dressed carefully, pulling my hair into a bun and pulling on my grey cardigan to hide my arms, and then stared out of the window, waiting, excited about my first A level chemistry lesson.

I was the first in the lab, having skipped breakfast, and took a seat on a bench at the back. Eventually, after what felt like an interminably long wait, other people began filing in. Nobody spoke to me, as I wasn't in their year, I didn't know anyone except Molly. I glanced at my watch, eight fifty nine; Molly was late, as usual. She ran in ten minutes later; flustered, with her hair all over the place and creamy pink lip gloss on her teeth; overslept after her late night at the lab. She took a seat at the front without even noticing me.

The lesson began, and it was unsurprisingly dull; but I comforted myself with the knowledge that it was significantly more interesting than taking chemistry with the idiots in my year. And for a while I felt almost happy, drowning my sorrows in calculations and coffee from my travel mug.

At the end of the lesson, it was time to collect in the summer holiday work. The teacher, a portly man with greying temples and a cheating wife, called on a boy sitting in the third row back, John Watson, to collect the booklets. I could see him sighing as he came towards my bench, I could see him freeze when he saw my initials, SH, on the front, I could see him staring at me incredulously.

It took me several seconds too long to figure it out. When I did, I picked up my satchel and ran.


	6. Chapter 6

The morning after I read the diary, I woke up late, with only ten minutes to get to chemistry. I cursed myself for missing out on breakfast and a shower as I grabbed my bag and set off for the science department. When I arrived, there were surprisingly few people there; most of them I recognised from our chemistry class last year; but one I didn't.

There was a girl sitting alone at the back, resting her elbows on the bench; her fingers steepled under her chin. She seemed lost in thought. She was skinny and gaunt, with prominent cheekbones and dark curly hair pulled into a bun; wearing a grey cardigan, even though it was unseasonably warm for September. Odd, I thought. And not wearing a tie either, that made me grin a bit.

She was beautiful, in a pale, haughty way.

I couldn't concentrate on mole calculations, I kept seeing her pale cheekbones, and grey blue eyes that make you want to see behind them. It was a battle to keep from turning around and staring.

Just before the end of the lesson, I was called on to collect the booklets of holiday home, _oh god what is it with me and being asked to do random jobs lately_? I thought to myself, exasperated. I started at the back, moving towards her desk first, I smiled at her hopefully, and glanced down at the booklet she handed me.

SH. _Holy shit._

It was really her.

I looked up just in time to see her back disappearing through the door.

I stumbled through the rest of the morning in somewhat of a blur; the next thing I really remember is plonking my tray down next to Greg's at lunch and pointing out Sherlock to him.

"Greg, oh my god, that's her," I gestured slightly with my head, "right there."

Greg put down his knife and fork and looked up from his lasagne.

"Sorry, what?"

"SH, the diary girl, she's just over there."

"Geez mate calm down" Greg followed my gaze across the dining hall, "Which one?"

"Dark curly hair, skinny, sitting over there by herself."

"Who?"

"Oh forget it. I'll ask someone later."

"Ask who what?" said a voice brightly behind me. A short girl with mousy brown hair and flushed cheeks put her tray down on the table next to Greg. I stared at her blankly. But she just smiled back at me over the table.

"Sorry… hi, I'm Molly Hooper. I, I was in your chemistry lesson this morning?"

"Oh yeah, I remember now." I mumbled politely. Raising a questioning eyebrow at Greg, who shook his head ever so slightly in return. Just a friend then.

"So" said Molly, teasingly, "who were you two staring at?"

"Do you know who she is?" I asked, gesturing to where Sherlock sat alone with only a glass of water.

"Oh her, that's Sherlock Holmes, year below us; why?"

_Sherlock Holmes._ Her name is Sherlock Holmes, I whispered quietly to myself.

"Sorry what did you say?" Asked Molly, sounding confused.

"Oh nothing, don't worry. It's fine."

Molly looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and then smiled knowingly.

"If you want to speak to her, she hangs about in the old science lab a lot; she'll probably be there to tonight. You should go and talk to her, she doesn't have many friends."

"Thanks Molly" I said grinning; and with that I scooped my tray up from the table and left Molly to Greg.


	7. Chapter 7

When I was out of the science block, I hesitated before turning away from the main school block and back to the old science roof. Settling myself on the concrete, I lit up a cigarette and took a long, slow drag, trying to calm myself. Smoking does that, calms me, and even Mycroft agreed that it's one of my better coping mechanisms.

Glancing briefly at my watch, I considered going to my maths lesson, but in the end I didn't. Instead I stayed on the roof, and puffed away at the emergency cigarettes I'd purchased from Jim Moriarty, the school's dealer of general contraband. It was convenient, but damn expensive; really, a very successful scheme on his part.

By lunchtime I was down to my last four, and was feeling thirsty, both from the dry September air and the smoking; so I headed down towards the dining hall to get some water.

I slipped passed the queue silently, nobody noticed me. I took a large glass of icy cold water from a tray and sat down at a table by myself, pretending to send a text message, I glanced over the heads of students tucking into their lunches, barely able to focus over the constant rumble and clatter of four hundred people eating. Then I saw him, he'd noticed me.

John.

He was sitting with Molly and his friend Greg; she was speaking to him whilst he stared in my direction. His gaze made me shift uncomfortably in my seat. Somehow it bothered me. When Greg also turned to look in my direction, I knew it was time to leave. I walked out of the dining hall as fast as I could, not pausing to turn around. I went straight back to my room in block B.

Once I'd locked the door, I felt able to breathe a small sigh of relief, I was safe in my room; it was my sanctuary. Shedding my school blazer, I stood in front of the full length mirror, and stared uncomfortably at my reflection. Slowly, I unbuttoned my grey cardigan, and let it slide off my shoulders; I pulled my long sleeved white shirt over my head without even having to undo more than the top two buttons, and stood there in a plain white lace bra and my grey school skirt.

My slim, pale fingers traced the protrusion of my collarbone, the jut of my hip, before running over the pale pink and shiny silver scars covering my wrists and torso. It didn't hurt, not physically, but somehow this small action shattered my remaining strands of composure. With practiced ease, I used my bank card to pull up the floorboard I had loosened several nights previously, and withdrew a small wooden box. Clicking open the latch carefully, I withdrew a silver penknife, and flicking out the shiny metal blade, saw the glint of it in the sunlight from the open window. Revelling in the adrenaline that coursed through my veins. Relishing, if only for a moment, the bliss of feeling powerful, of feeling in control, the power of the blade in my hand.

Lowering the silver edge onto my left wrist, I began to press down, gently at first, when my phone beeped from where I had thrown it on the bed. Sighing, I laid the penknife almost reverently back in its box, and grabbed my phone.

Are you okay? Why did you run out of lunch like that? -Molly

I groaned, Molly was so interfering, always convinced I needed 'someone to talk to'. I tapped out a quick message, half hoping she wouldn't reply.

I'm fine, thank you Molly. SH

The reply was almost instant.

Alright then. I've got some more solutions for you to identify? Meet me in the lab in 20 minutes? Molly

I almost smiled.

Replacing the box under the loose floorboard, I stood up and slid back into my white shirt, buttoning the cuffs up carefully, making sure to cover my wrists fully. I pulled my grey cardigan back on, and grabbing the folder that contained all my notes from previous experiments and headed down to the lab to meet Molly.

I arrived before she did, and the first thing I did was put the kettle on, settling for sweet black coffee, there wasn't any milk. Of course there wasn't.

On the bench, were the samples Molly had told me about; lined up in small pyrex flasks. That made me smile. Just a bit.

Molly arrived, looking flustered but happy. _Oh, of course._

"But Molly I thought bakewell tart was your favourite?"

"Huh?" Molly stared at me blankly.

"You didn't have pudding today, you're early; but you aren't dieting, you look happy. You still have a napkin in your pocket, most uncharacteristic Molly, but oh look" I pulled the napkin from her pocket, "A phone number, Greg's obviously. You didn't have pudding in front of him, you didn't want to look greedy, but you're still happy because he's taking you out this weekend."

"Yes…I mean no." She sighed deeply. "Yes, yes he is."

"Good for you Molly."

"Um, thanks" she replied awkwardly, "shall we make a start?"

"Let us begin."

We worked steadily through the afternoon, talking very little; but it was a companionable silence. Molly smiled and hummed tunelessly to herself, no doubt pleased about her upcoming date with Greg. By six o'clock, Molly began packing up her bench in time for dinner.

"Come on Sherlock," Molly sounded impatient, eager to go in the hopes of seeing Greg again, "come to dinner, please?"

"I'm fine here, but thanks for asking." I deadpanned, I wasn't hungry, and I didn't feel like talking.

"Alright then," Molly scooped her bag up off the floor as she spoke, "see you tomorrow then."

I nodded, and then returned my attention to the hand drawn graph in front of me frowning at it until I realised what was wrong. We had made a slight mistake in our testing of sulphuric acid; I would have to repeat it.

Sighing, I got out the equipment again, and slowly, methodically, repeated the experiment, hoping for the time to pass, enjoying the distraction of focussing on someone I could control.

When I paused to wash up some test tubes and grab a new pipette, I glanced at the clock by the door. Twenty past eleven. Late, but still early enough to go to bed if I wanted to.

Whilst I was washing up, I heard the door open, and someone came into the lab; standing behind me in silence. Not Molly, she would've said something, so who? Who else could know I would be here? _Oh_, I realised, _oh shit_.

I dried my hands on a tea towel and turned slowly to face him, drawing myself up to my full height, which was, fortunately, a good three inches taller than he was. I took a deep breath, drawing on every ounce of composure that I could muster.

"I believe you have something to return to me, Mr Watson."


	8. Chapter 8

After leaving Molly and Greg alone, I went back to my room in the boarding house and changed into old trackies and trainers. I stuck in my earphones and set off for the large playing fields, hoping exercise and upbeat music would distract me for a bit.

And it did, it really did.

An hour later, drenched in sweat I wandered back up to block A for a shower, hoping to catch Greg to ask him how it had gone with Molly. When I got back Greg was lying on his bed grinning like an idiot. It had gone well then.

"Lucky shit."

"You bet I am mate" he paused, his grin fading as he became suddenly serious, "listen, John, you're not going to do anything stupid are you? I mean with to this girl, Sherlock or whatever her name is, I mean, just give the damn book back and leave her alone. It's none of your business." I stared hard at him.

"Greg, don't worry, it'll be fine."

"Sure, whatever." Greg went back to flicking through his maths notes. Turning back to me, he looked almost anxious. "Where do you reckon I should take her?" he asked, pathetically eager; I almost laughed.

"Who?" I questioned, teasing.

"Molly, you bloody twit!"

"Oh, Molly, of course. Um, well I suppose there's that new Italian place, Angelo's; you could take her there I guess." I honestly had no idea, having not been on a staggering number of successful dates myself. I was hopeless with girls, even Harry said so.

"Cheers mate." Said Greg, grinning at me.

I smiled back, "Shower for me, then we can go down for dinner?"

"Yeah, sure, but hurry up I'm bloody starving."

I smirked and slipped into the bathroom.

Despite hurrying in the shower - Greg could be really whiny when he got hungry - I took my time shaving, going slowly, carefully; still trying to figure it out, as with dad gone, there had been no one to show me, and I'd been left to my own devices. It would be significantly worse to go around with a scab on my face for a week, I decided.

After dressing in a grey polo shirt and jeans, I followed Greg to the dining room, where I was immediately abandoned for Molly. I left them alone and took a sandwich back to my room instead. I got out my biology homework and tried to focus on understanding the molecular structure of sugars.

Greg stumbled through the door in a happy daze at quarter to nine, throwing himself down on his bed dramatically.

"She said yes then?"

"John, under what circumstances could she possibly have any cause to refuse such a handsome devil as myself?" He replied smoothly, smirking at me.

"Cocky bastard."

Greg chuckled in reply, before rolling out of bed to go to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

I waited anxiously for Greg to fall asleep. He didn't need to know I was planning to go and find Sherlock Holmes, I reasoned. By the time he began to snore softly, the soft green glow of Greg's alarm clock read sixteen minutes past eleven. Time to go.

It was easy enough to sneak of out the boarding house, all I had to do was go down to the ground floor and climb out the window; and soon I was jogging through the cool breeze down to the disused science lab.

When I got there the door was unlocked, so I slid in quietly; and there she was, Sherlock Holmes, washing up test tubes. She dried her hands on a tea towel and turned to me.

"I believe you have something to return to me, Mr Watson." Her tone was cold, icy and composed, but underneath that I could see her bottom lip quivering, and my heart ached for her.

I handed her the book slowly, calmly, and then turned to leave, thinking if she was going to cry she wouldn't want me to see, but she grabbed my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Wait" she said quietly, "please, don't go, I need someone to help me finish the washing up."

I nodded slowly, trying to smile in encouragement. She handed me a tea towel and gestured towards the pile of dripping glassware on the bench. _Dear god she'd actually meant it about the washing up_, I though ruefully.

We tidied away the equipment in companionable silence, and when we were finished, she pulled a red biscuit tin from one of the many cupboards. Once we were both munching on custard creams and perched on the edge of the wooden bench, she turned to me.

"Okay, you've got questions." I was silent for a moment, trying to formulate and appropriate response.

"Are you alright?" I began awkwardly; she stared right through me silent. I tried again. "I mean, do have anyone to talk to about things?" I trailed off awkwardly and stared at her expectantly.

She shook her head and stared down at the floor.

"What about me?" She smiled, just a little.

"Thank you."


	9. Chapter 9

"Piss off." I said, trying to keep my voice steady, holding onto the small scraps of dignity I still had left.

John looked at me sadly, hurt in his beautiful blue eyes, as if he could make it all okay, which somehow made everything feel just a tiny bit better. Odd, I noted, but dismissed the thought almost immediately, _he doesn't like you, he just feels sorry for you,_ I warned myself sternly; but a tiny part of me revelled in realising that somebody cared about me. That John Watson cared about me.

John looked at me with a puzzled expression, and only then did I realise that I'd been staring. _Shit_.

"So," he began awkwardly, avoiding my gaze; "what are you doing up this early?" He mumbled finally. _Oh good god_, I thought to myself, I hated pity.

"Mind palace."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My mind palace. Memory technique."

"Right, I see." He paused and frowned. "What is that exactly?"

I smiled, just a bit.

"A place to store memories, theoretically you can never forget anything."

"So...you've been up here all night?" His eyebrow flickered up. Unnoticeable to almost anyone; to anyone ordinary.

"Yes." I answered simply; scrambling for some sort of explanation other than 'I'm a messed up freak who cries and smokes on roofs at night instead of sleeping', but none came.

"Christ" whispered John, running his hands through his messy blonde hair, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, of course I'm fine." I muttered, shuddering as I remembered how many times I'd told that to Mycroft. John didn't seem to notice though; he just ploughed right on.

"Shall we...grab some breakfast?" He asked hesitantly, concern flickering over his kind face.

"What day is it?"

"Erm... Wednesday, why?"

"No, I'm fine, I ate yesterday..." I answered swiftly, only too late seeing his face fall ever so slightly in disappointment, I amended myself quickly. "...I could use some coffee though."

I settled myself into chair opposite John with a very large mug of sweet black coffee. After so long of never having milk, I'd developed quite a liking for black coffee; you could get more caffeine in each cup too, I noted. Efficient.

The dining hall was deserted apart from the kitchen staff having their own breakfast before being overwhelmed by an influx of hungry, tired teenagers. John had in front of him a bowl of steaming porridge, a mug of tea; I smiled, so English; and two bananas. He slid one across the table toward me.

"Eat." He said simply. And much to my own horror, I complied, peeling away the yellow skin carefully, and looking expectantly back John, waiting for him to say something, anything to break the awfully awkward silence that had fallen over us.

And he did.

He told me about Harry, about their mother, and the disapproval that had met Harry when she came out, (though even John admitted, her method had been rather unorthodox, apparently their mother had walked in to find her and Clara engaged in somewhat intimate activities); and he told me about the drinking. I really did try to pretend I hadn't known all of those things since five minutes after meeting him.

He told me about Greg, and Molly, as well as his hopes of becoming a doctor and joining the army, and rugby, and chemistry and a hundred and one other things that were somehow made fascinating by his lips, by his mouth, in his deep ( but only recently so, it seemed) voice.

He poured his whole life out to me. Just like that. Very trusting. Very loyal; very quickly. It was overwhelmingly wonderful, heady and dizzy, but firm and warm all at once. By the time he'd finished his porridge and begun on his banana, he'd run out of things to say, forced to end his avoidance of asking me about my life. He munched silently for several moments; he didn't want to ask me, I could tell, he was afraid of what he might hear.

"Do you... do you have any siblings?" Right, I berated myself silently, he's starting small, good; _you can do this_. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers under the table.

"Yes, I have an older brother, Mycroft; he's twenty two, the insufferable fat git. Always trying to persuade me to accept psychiatric help."

John was awkwardly silent, his brow creasing; oh no, damn my big mouth, I couldn't even answer a simple question like that right.

My fingers twitched, drumming out Vivaldi on the lacquered table top. John remained silent. _Oh_ I realised suddenly; _oh shit._

"You read it all, didn't you?" I asked directly, trying to maintain a calm exterior, trying not to look like the wreck I felt like. There was genuine guilt and pain in his eyes when he answered.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." _Right, of course he read it, god dammit Sherlock how could you be so stupid?_ I asked myself angrily. On the outside, I just about held on to the facade, to a semblance of composure; of normalcy.

"Just try to be one of the few people who have intellectual capacity to distinguish between self hatred and mental illness." I said calmly, before sliding out of my chair and leaving the dining hall without even a glance over my shoulder. When I paused to open the door, a warm hand caught my shoulder, and I spun around in shock.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock" he said quietly, fiddling anxiously with the hem of his shirt, "I don't think you're mad; just lonely."

I flashed a small, sad smile.

"Thank you." I muttered, and then I swept out of the door.


	10. Chapter 10

And just like that she disappeared though the fire door, leaving me shivering slightly in the dark.

_Oh god_, she was fascinating. _Intoxicating_.

Trudging slowly back to block A, I considered carefully the events of the evening. Wow, I thought, she'd never let me be bored again.

Somehow, I managed to slip into our room without waking Greg, and slid into bed without even bothering to get undressed.

When I woke up, grey light was beginning to peak through the curtains, I rolled over to see the display on Greg's Alarm clock, six fifty-three, I groaned, so bloody early.

Only then was I aware of the uncomfortably tight feeling in my jeans. Sighing, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.

I saw Irene, her curvy hips and pale face, imagined her dark hair sliding over my thighs; but then, all off a sudden, the dark hair was curly and thick. _Oh shit, John Watson,_ I cursed myself, _what the bloody hell were you thinking? She's just a kid, a scared, messed up, lonely kid._

I turned the water round to cold, clenching my fists tightly.

When I came out of the bathroom, Greg was still snoring softly; christ, that prat could sleep through anything, I muttered to myself as I grabbed some clean red pants and my school uniform, hurrying to have time for a walk before breakfast.

I looked in the mirror for a moment, adjusted my tie and smoothed down my hair; grabbing my phone from its charging dock and heading downstairs out into the clear freshness of a new day.

On my way down to the woods to visit the Groundskeepers' dog, Gladstone, I found myself passing the old science block where I met Sherlock the previous night.

Guess who I saw, perched on the roof, silhouetted in black against the final pink dregs stretching across the sky. Oh god she was gorgeous.

Beckoning, she pointed to the other side of the building, telling me that was the way to get up; inviting me to join her. Smiling, I jogged around to the rear of the building to climb up a combination of an old fire escape, two drainpipes and a window ledge.

I swung myself up onto the roof from the ledge and went to sit next to Sherlock, where she was leaning her back against a chimney. After several minutes she spoke.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I whipped around to face her, confused.

"Wh... I'm sorry, what?" She looked at me like I'd just asked her what my own name was.

"Where was your father killed?" She asked, her voice crisp, almost icy. I stared at her in bewilderment, what the hell was this girl on about?

"Er...Afghanistan. But how, could you possibly know that?"

"Your shoes, they're old, hand me downs; not too rich then, a scholarship boy, but not academic or sporting or music. You play the clarinet instrument - you have a callous on your thumb, but you haven't been playing it long enough to get a scholarship because the callous isn't rough enough - and I know who the other scholarships kids are for your year. That badge on your blazer, Help for Heroes, a family connection to the armed forces then, Military paying your school fees after the death of a parent; I heard you mention your mother to Greg the other day so your Father. Can't have been too long ago, this is only your second year here, conclusion: your father was killed in Afghanistan or Iraq."

I was silent for what felt like hours, but was really probably just a few seconds. This girl was extraordinary, she was... astounding. She made my head spin, in her dizzying, breathless speech. She made my mouth feel dry and the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Eventually, I swallowed and licked my lips slowly, trying to formulate a response.

"Wow... that was...bloody hell, that was amazing." I breathed, barely above a whisper. I expected her to smile, I thought that I would like to see her smile, but instead she flushed red with shame and looked at the floor, crunching together two small chunks of concrete between her pale, bony fingers.

"That's not what people normally say." She said nervously, looking up, piercing into me with her big grey blue eyes. I was shocked, how could anyone fail to find that anything but amazing? I wondered silently.

"What do they normally say?" I asked, prodding gently. Her response was cold, deadpan; devoid of all emotion, like she'd cried over it too many times before and was trying to control herself.

"Piss off."


	11. Chapter 11

"Piss off." I said, trying to keep my voice steady, holding onto the small scraps of dignity I still had left.

John looked at me sadly, hurt in his beautiful blue eyes, as if he could make it all okay, which somehow made everything feel just a tiny bit better. Odd, I noted, but dismissed the thought almost immediately, _he doesn't like you, he just feels sorry for you,_ I warned myself sternly; but a tiny part of me revelled in realising that somebody cared about me. That John Watson cared about me.

John looked at me with a puzzled expression, and only then did I realise that I'd been staring. _Shit_.

"So," he began awkwardly, avoiding my gaze; "what are you doing up this early?" He mumbled finally. _Oh good god_, I thought to myself, I hated pity.

"Mind palace."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My mind palace. Memory technique."

"Right, I see." He paused and frowned. "What is that exactly?"

I smiled, just a bit.

"A place to store memories, theoretically you can never forget anything."

"So...you've been up here all night?" His eyebrow flickered up. Unnoticeable to almost anyone; to anyone ordinary.

"Yes." I answered simply; scrambling for some sort of explanation other than 'I'm a messed up freak who cries and smokes on roofs at night instead of sleeping', but none came.

"Christ" whispered John, running his hands through his messy blonde hair, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, of course I'm fine." I muttered, shuddering as I remembered how many times I'd told that to Mycroft. John didn't seem to notice though; he just ploughed right on.

"Shall we...grab some breakfast?" He asked hesitantly, concern flickering over his kind face.

"What day is it?"

"Erm... Wednesday, why?"

"No, I'm fine, I ate yesterday..." I answered swiftly, only too late seeing his face fall ever so slightly in disappointment, I amended myself quickly. "...I could use some coffee though."

I settled myself into chair opposite John with a very large mug of sweet black coffee. After so long of never having milk, I'd developed quite a liking for black coffee; you could get more caffeine in each cup too, I noted. Efficient.

The dining hall was deserted apart from the kitchen staff having their own breakfast before being overwhelmed by an influx of hungry, tired teenagers. John had in front of him a bowl of steaming porridge, a mug of tea; I smiled, so English; and two bananas. He slid one across the table toward me.

"Eat." He said simply. And much to my own horror, I complied, peeling away the yellow skin carefully, and looking expectantly back John, waiting for him to say something, anything to break the awfully awkward silence that had fallen over us.

And he did.

He told me about Harry, about their mother, and the disapproval that had met Harry when she came out, (though even John admitted, her method had been rather unorthodox, apparently their mother had walked in to find her and Clara engaged in somewhat intimate activities); and he told me about the drinking. I really did try to pretend I hadn't known all of those things since five minutes after meeting him.

He told me about Greg, and Molly, as well as his hopes of becoming a doctor and joining the army, and rugby, and chemistry and a hundred and one other things that were somehow made fascinating by his lips, by his mouth, in his deep ( but only recently so, it seemed) voice.

He poured his whole life out to me. Just like that. Very trusting. Very loyal; very quickly. It was overwhelmingly wonderful, heady and dizzy, but firm and warm all at once. By the time he'd finished his porridge and begun on his banana, he'd run out of things to say, forced to end his avoidance of asking me about my life. He munched silently for several moments; he didn't want to ask me, I could tell, he was afraid of what he might hear.

"Do you... do you have any siblings?" Right, I berated myself silently, he's starting small, good; _you can do this_. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers under the table.

"Yes, I have an older brother, Mycroft; he's twenty two, the insufferable fat git. Always trying to persuade me to accept psychiatric help."

John was awkwardly silent, his brow creasing; oh no, damn my big mouth, I couldn't even answer a simple question like that right.

My fingers twitched, drumming out Vivaldi on the lacquered table top. John remained silent. _Oh_ I realised suddenly; _oh shit._

"You read it all, didn't you?" I asked directly, trying to maintain a calm exterior, trying not to look like the wreck I felt like. There was genuine guilt and pain in his eyes when he answered.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." _Right, of course he read it, god dammit Sherlock how could you be so stupid?_ I asked myself angrily. On the outside, I just about held on to the facade, to a semblance of composure; of normalcy.

"Just try to be one of the few people who have intellectual capacity to distinguish between self hatred and mental illness." I said calmly, before sliding out of my chair and leaving the dining hall without even a glance over my shoulder. When I paused to open the door, a warm hand caught my shoulder, and I spun around in shock.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock" he said quietly, fiddling anxiously with the hem of his shirt, "I don't think you're mad; just lonely."

I flashed a small, sad smile.

"Thank you." I muttered, and then I swept out of the door.


	12. Chapter 12

She'd done it again, just vanished. Run off without a second glance; leaving me standing awkwardly by the door, staring after her.

Turning slowly, I collected my empty bowl and mug from the table, returning them to the kitchen and heading back to my room to get my books.

_How? _I wondered, _how could she have spent all this time alone? How could anybody live like that, how could anybody live their whole life feeling unworthy of love?_ My heart ached for her, a deep burning sympathy, a desire to help her, to make her feel like somebody cared.

The bell rang, loud and harsh, distracting me from my contemplation. Glancing at my watch, I broke into a jog, _shit _I muttered, couldn't afford to be late to maths again.

I didn't see her again until Saturday, she never showed up to chemistry, I didn't see her in the dining hall, she wasn't in the library. I was terrified, scared that I'd scared her off completely. I thought about going to the science lab to try to find her, I didn't, _coward_, I thought that if I really had scared her away she wouldn't want me there.

It was ten to seven in the morning; I was coming back from a run, alone having been unsuccessful in my attempts to rouse Greg. She was on the roof again.

I stopped, craning my neck to see her in the pale light of early morning; she beckoned me up. I managed to navigate the drainpipes without mishap, and soon I was perched uncomfortably on the cold concrete roof, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"John can I borrow your phone?" she asked after a lengthy silence. I looked at her, puzzled.

"Where's yours?"

"Boarding house."

Sighing, I slid my phone out the zipped pocket on the back of my shorts and held it out to her. She lifted her hand but made no move to take it; rolling my eyes to the grey sky, I placed the phone between her pale, slim fingers.

She typed furiously for several seconds before handing it back to me. I shoved it back in my pocket without bothering to check who she had been texting. I folded my arms against the cold dampness of the morning and turned my gaze back to Sherlock; who grinned and lit up a cigarette, taking a long hungry drag before blowing smoke into the breeze. I was shocked.

"Sherlock!" I almost shouted, my voice harsh against the quiet, "What the bloody hell are you doing?" I grabbed the cigarette from her boy fingers and stubbed it out firmly onto the roof.

She smiled lazily, leaning back and lighting another.

"Would you rather I took a razor to my wrists?"

That shut me up pretty fast.

Neither of us spoke for several minutes; Sherlock smoked, and I tried to think of something halfway intelligent to say to break the horribly awkward silence that had fallen over us. After smoking two cigarettes, she stood, stretching tension out of her back and shoulders as she did so, and excused herself, muttering something vague about going to the library. And then she was gone, _again_.

Frowning, I lowered myself back down over the fire escape and drainpipes to reach the floor, heading back to block A to wake Greg up for rugby practice.

After a long shower to rid myself of a morning's mud and sweat, I grabbed my phone off the bed to call Harry, when I remembered that Sherlock had borrowed my phone. Apprehensively, I scrolled through, opening the sent folder.

If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH

That was it; I squinted at the screen in confusion for several seconds before my curiosity got the better of me. I dialled the number.

It rang out, went to voice mail, but it gave me all the information I needed.

"Hi, you've reached Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm sorry I can't answer my phone..."

I hung up, puzzling over this strange new turn of events; then it clicked.

The girl, one Greg's dad told him about, it was Sherlock. I sped off to find her.

She was in the science lab. Of course she was.

When I entered she looked up briefly from whatever she was testing.

"Did you bring milk?" she asked casually.

"Um... no."

"Shame, I asked to you." Now I was really confused.

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

"But I wasn't here an hour ago" I replied, hoisting myself up to sit on the bench opposite the one she was working at.

"She paused, pulling off her safety goggles and switching off the roaring bunsen burner, the room felt strangely quiet without it.

"Not my fault." She muttered lazily, turning her attention to a page of calculations scribbled haphazardly in black ink.

I swallowed, trying to figure out how to ask her. Eventually, I realised I just had to go for it.

"Why were you texting Greg's dad Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" she answered, throwing her pen down on the bench and turning to me.

"Why were you texting Greg's dad?" I repeated.

She looked at me awkwardly, her shoulders visibly heaving before a forced calm overtook her.

"Yes, you are correct in your assumptions, I am indeed the girl Greg mentioned to you. I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job."

I stared at her, slack jawed in shock. She grinned at me and grabbed her coat and soft blue scarf from a chair.

"Come on John, we're going to London."


	13. Chapter 13

I didn't call Mycroft to ask for a car, I knew it had been waiting in the car park for the last three hours. _That pompous, interfering git _I smirked, donning my blue scarf and grabbing my coat from the back of the chair I'd thrown it on.

"Come on John" I chivvied, "lots to do." He looked at me blankly; I sighed dramatically

"I'm sorry..." he blinked at me in confusion, then steeled his expression, drawing himself up to his full height and addressing me more sternly, "Sherlock what on earth are you talking about?"

_Silly question; dull, boring, predictable._

"Case John, for Lestrade; do try to keep up" I replied impatiently, eager to get on with the long drive to London. Hoping to avoid having to spend the night at Mycroft's house if at all possible.

John was still fixing me with a puzzled stare; eventually I lost patience and grabbed him by the wrist; dragging him out of the lab and stopping only to flick off the lights, plunging the unfinished experiment into darkness.

The black car was waiting, just I like I knew it would. I pulled open the door and motioned for John to get in.

"Let's go." I stated simply, slamming the door behind me.

I watched John intently as he stared out of the window into the crisp brightness of September, seeing the school fall away into the distance. After several minutes of silence, he turned from the window and smiled at me, gently, encouragingly, pityingly.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, his voice gentle and calming. I shook my head, staring down at the floor, fiddling with my scarf. And then he did something that surprised me.

He reached out and took my hand in his.

My heart thudded, so loud I was sure John could hear it to; his tanned hand was war and comforting against mine, I looked up, straight into his piercing blue eyes, his mouth creased into a sad smile, the way mother used to smile at me, the way Mycroft smiled at me when he inspected my arms. _Oh_ _god._

"John, I..." I trailed off uncertainly; my mind went dark with memories as I tried to focus myself on the present, on the warmth of his hand on mine. He stared at me seriously for several moments; but he didn't let go.

"It's okay Sherlock, I promise, you can tell me if you want to," he paused, sighing deeply, trying to think of what to say, "but if you don't," he continued, more certainly this time, "then that's fine too. It's all fine."

"I know it's fine."

He nodded, and withdrew his hand. Suddenly aware of the lump in my throat, I turned to face the window.

"Maybe one day, not yet."

We rode in utter silence for the next twenty minutes, before my phone pinged in the pocket of my skirt. Pulling it out; I groaned. Mycroft.

Finally. I shall send a car for you this evening. –MH

Sighing, I tapped out a response, my fingers dancing over the keys.

We are not staying the night. –SH

He didn't reply; well not to me anyway. A few minutes later John pulled his phone out of his pocket and frowned, before sending of a reply.

_Oh_.

After the exchange of several more messages, he frowned again and turned back to me.

"You're right, your brother is a pompous git." I laughed then, and smirked over at John, who looked thoroughly confused.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" He was, if possible, even more confused than before.

"Yes, as a matter of fact; but how did..." I cut him of quickly.

"Did you take it?"

"No of course I didn't; Sherlock!" He seemed upset that I thought he might have done. Frowning, I shook my head in exasperation.

"Pity, we could've split it; think it through next time." John just stared at me, before rolling his eyes and turning back to the window.

Silence overcame us again, awkward. I couldn't think of anything to say, a personal first, by my calculations. I tried to think, but I couldn't; John was there, he was distracting, which I found disturbing in itself. _Caring is not an advantage,_ I reminded myself silently.

I pulled out my phone again and texted Lestrade.

We're on our way, half an hour. -SH

He replied almost immediately.

We? Sally will meet you at the Yard and drive you up. -GL

I sighed, choosing not to answer.

I glanced over at John, but neither of us spoke until we pulled into Scotland Yard.

"This is it John, come on, Lestrade's waiting." I sighed impatiently, but John just looked at me with a bemused smile on his face.

"You were actually serious? You want me to come with you to...solve crime or something?"

"Of course I do." I replied, frowning slightly, "Do try to keep up." Buttoning my coat, I slid out of the car and strode over to where Sally was hovering by a police care, holding two takeaway coffee cups.

I grabbed both of them, handing one to John and turning just in time to catch the flash of anger on her face.

"Sherlock, that was my..." I snorted.

"Where are we going?" I noticed her visibly swallow her irritation and smirked, _serves her right for thinking I wouldn't notice she's having an affair with Anderson, _I thought to myself.

"Brixton. Who's this?" Her voice was firm and authoritative.

"He's with me." I replied, drawing myself up to my full height and taking a sip of coffee, _eugh, not enough sugar._ Sally glared at me angrily.

"Yes, but who is he?" I fixed her with an ice cold stare.

"I said, he's with me."

There was an awkward, angry silence, before John rolled his eyes at me and took over.

"Hello Miss..?" he trailed off momentarily, looking at Sally expectantly.

"Donovan, Sergeant Donovan." John nodded and continued smoothly.

"Sergeant Donovan; I'm John Watson. I'm a friend of Sherlock's, and I believe we were asked here by the father of a friend of ours, Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Sally stared for several seconds, stunned into silence.

"A friend, of yours?" sneering at me she turned to John, "Did she follow you home?"

Biting my lip, I nodded curtly, and turned up my collar, trying to keep just a little bit more of the world out.

"As pleasant as this has been, though doubtless you had more fun last night Sally, shall we go?"

Sally fixed me an angry glare, but gestured to the waiting police car.

"Come on then."


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock yanked open the door of the police car unceremoniously and waited for me to get in, rolling her eyes impatiently. Unsure, I looked at Sergeant Donovan, or Sally, as it appeared she was called; she nodded to me and slid into the front seat, firing up the engine. Squaring my shoulders, I clambered into the back next to a large black holdall and pulled the seatbelt over my shoulder. Sherlock slipped easily in beside me on the back seat, her thigh crushed against mine because of the bag, warm and exciting.

Shifting uncomfortably, I pulled my jacket off and laid it across my lap.

The journey passed in total silence, Sergeant Donovan glaring occasionally in the wing mirror. I glanced over at Sherlock, sitting tense in her seat, practically bristling with excitement; I smiled, and so did she, but the awkward silence continued.

After what felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life, we pulled up at a nondescript multi-storey building in what I assumed to be Brixton. Practically bursting with glee, Sherlock grabbed me by the sleeve of my jumper and dragged me out of the car. Pausing only to shoot a dirty stare at a tall dark haired man in a blue boiler suit, she strode into the building as fast as her impossibly slim legs could carry her; leaving me no choice but to follow.

In the hallway was a well built, grey haired man, wearing the same blue boiler suit and looking seriously at Sherlock. It took a moment for it to connect. It was Greg's dad, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I remembered seeing him at a few rugby games last year, grinning and waving to Greg.

My train of thought was promptly interrupted by Sherlock aiming rapid fire questions at DI Lestrade.

"What've we got?" She questioned urgently, looking expectantly up at him and fidgeting impatiently.

"Woman, mid thirties, name's Jennifer Wilson, we're running her credit cards for contact details now. The body's not been here too long," he paused and then glanced at me, and shot Sherlock a confused glance, "hang on...don't I know you? Jamie...no, John something? What's he doing here Sherlock?" I cut in quickly this time.

"John Watson, I'm uh, friends with Greg..." I trailed off uncertainly, _what am I doing here?_ I wondered suddenly. Lestrade did not look impressed.

"Right, hi. Sherlock what is he doing here?" he asked again, tinged with annoyance this time.

"John is assisting me" she replied, with all the confidence in the world, glaring up, as if daring him to try to disagree with her, "lead the way Detective Inspector." Sighing to himself, Lestrade gestured to a table holding a collection of the blue overalls and white boots.

Sherlock turned to me and grinned mischievously. "You need to wear one of these." She smirked, picking up a pair of latex gloves and following Lestrade up the stairs.

"I can give you two minutes." Lestrade called down the stairs. Sherlock's eyes fluttered skywards as she pulled her wild hair back into a hair bobble and snapped on her gloves.

"May need longer." She replied casually, slipping through the door he held open for her and motioning for me to follow.

Swallowing, I stepped into the dank room; before freezing at the sight of the body on the floor. Breathing deeply I turned to Sherlock, who seemed not to be bothered by the body of the dead women in the slightest. _Odd,_ supplied a small part of my brain. She knelt next to the body, swiping gloved fingers over the shocking pink coat, examining earrings before standing, snapping of her gloves and tapping into her phone. Looking up, she raised her eyebrows at me questioningly, _shit John stop staring, _I cringed and looked down at the floor.

My embarrassment was interrupted by Lestrade.

"Just do what you can, we're gonna need all you can give us too figure out who she is and why she's here." Sherlock nodded sternly, when the sallow man from downstairs appeared, leaning against the doorframe.

"She's german," he gestured to the letters scratched on the floor, "_rache_, it's german for revenge." Sherlock sighed deeply and slammed the door firmly in his face.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes John?" she turned to me; and much as I tried to frown, I couldn't, so I just smiled instead. In the corner of my vision, Lestrade was frowning impatiently.

"Could you two possibly make googly eyes at each other later?" He folded his arms and looked sternly Sherlock, who visibly pulled herself together and began.

"She's not german, she's from out of town though, intended to stay in London for one night, before returning to Cardiff. She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily; she's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married." She halted abruptly and looked up.

"Bloody hell" I muttered, "that was, amazing..." I trailed off lamely; I could almost feel Lestrade sighing as he peered down at a text on his phone.

"Listen, thanks Sherlock, but I'm gonna have to take your word for it, Mycroft's sent a car for you, it's outside."

"So he's taken to bothering you too? Pompous git." Sherlock flounced over to the door and down the stairs before turning and yelling back up to Lestrade.

"You have to find her suitcase!"

And then she was gone, out the door. Leaving me to play catch up again.

_Which really shouldn't be this enjoyable_, I noted wryly.

Outside, there was another black car, sleek and imposing. Night was beginning to fall, the light fading away to grey; and I shivered in the cool air.

Sherlock was waiting for me by the car.

"Sorry John, I'm afraid we can't go back to school tonight, Mycroft has requested our presence." I blinked, confused, _Mycroft?_ _Stay the night?_ Sighing, I zipped up my jacket and pulled open the car door for Sherlock, waiting for her to get in.

"Should only be about half an hour; it is only Kensington. I expect Mrs Hudson will have some dinner if you're hungry." Pausing, Sherlock looked at me expectantly, "John?"

I swallowed.

"Yeah" I answered, breathing deeply, "it's just...Kensington..." My eyes fell to the floor, embarrassed.

"John what on earth are you talking about?" _Jesus Christ she really can be dense sometimes._

"Nothing, don't worry, it's fine."

"Very well."

She didn't speak again for a long time, just stared out of the window. Quite unnerving really.

Eventually, we drew up to a large set of wrought iron gates that slid open as the driver punched in a code; drawing back to reveal an impressive driveway leading up to what was undoubtedly the largest house I'd ever seen. If house was even the right word; looked more like a mansion to me. I swallowed nervously, wiping my palms nervously on my trousers.

I ended up following her again, striding up to the large black door just in time to see it thrown open. Inside stood a tall man, who didn't look that much older than Sherlock, with a curious round face and the same smug, assured expression. Sherlock turned to me and bit her lip, looking both nervous and irritated.

"John, this is my brother, Mycroft."


	15. Chapter 15

"Ah, Mr Watson..." Mycroft began smoothly, picking at nonexistent fluff on his three piece grey suit. I glared at him and pushed past into the house, hoping John would follow me.

"Piss off Mycroft." I spat, the words tasted harsh and bitter in my mouth, but I was just too tired and stressed to argue with my brother.

I just wanted to be alone with John.

"Sherlock," Mycroft cautioned; but I silenced him with the tiniest shake of my head. He sighed. "Well if you insist. Do go and see Mrs Hudson, she's missed you," I could almost feel the disbelief dripping from his voice, and my eyes prickled, "oh and do find some dinner for your friend." And with that he was gone, swept away to his office without so much as a mention of mother's whereabouts.

Swallowing hard and blinking back the tears that threatened to fall, I turned and smiled at John with the easy, _I'm alright_ smile I'd practised so often in the mirror.

"The kitchen's this way John, if you're hungry, and I'm sure Mrs Hudson would like to meet you."

I don't know if I didn't act well enough, or if John had simply come to know me so much better than everybody else, but he seemed to sense my distress somehow. He reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing gently.

His touch was warm and comforting.

"Come on then." He replied gently. I was silent for a moment, thrown off balance by something I didn't quite understand

_Sentiment_.

"Yes...of course...this way." I mumbled uncertainly. _Pull yourself together Sherlock,_ I could almost hear Mycroft hissing, _caring is not an advantage._

I snatched my hand away sharply and hurried down the stairs into the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson was standing by the slate grey aga, pouring coffee into my favourite stripy mug. Turning, she smiled warmly and pulled me into a tight hug. I stiffened but didn't pull away.

"Sherlock," she said gently, almost cautious, "it's so good to see you here without hearing that you've been suspended..." She paused and looked up, "and who's this?" Raising an eyebrow, she placed my coffee mug on the table next to John and went to fetch another one for me.

I took a deep breath.

"Mrs Hudson, this is John Watson, my..." I broke off, and looked at the floor. _What is John? _I thought,_ not a friend I don't think..._

"Friend." He cut in, stepping forward to shake her hand but stopping as she hugged him too. I smiled. Just a bit.

"John, this is Mrs Hudson, she...well she's always been here for Mycroft and myself..." I trailed off feebly. It's embarrassing to admit that Mrs Hudson has been more of a parent to us than mother or father over the years.

"Well lovely to meet you dear, there's more fresh coffee on the stove, and the pasta bake will be done in ten minutes. Please try to make her eat something John." And she was gone, _off to see her new 'friend' most probably_.

I pulled out a chair for John and took back by coffee mug, taking a large sip. Oh, goodness, I'd forgotten how nice proper coffee was. Discarding the other cup of coffee, I made some tea in Mycroft's mug and handed it to John. He smiled gently at me.

"Thanks, can't stand coffee." I nodded and chuckled dryly in reply; but as much as I wanted to, I just couldn't smile back.

For a few minutes, we sat in silence, and just soaked in the silence, revelling in it. Like all those hours on the roof. Then reality came crashing back when I smelt burning and remembered the supper. Grabbing the oven gloves I yanked the pyrex dish out and plonked it down on the chopping board, frowning slightly to hide the fact that I was trying to inhale the rich scent of vine tomatoes and mozzarella. Skipping over the kitchen floor in my tights, I was still wearing my pencil skirt and tight purple silk shirt, I picked up two plates and almost the threw the cutlery pot at John.

Who, in his defence, caught it admirably..

We ate quietly, chatting, but not really talking. It was nice though. John was there, and Mycroft had yet to show his face.

Before I'd even had time to glance away from John, it was ten thirty and Mycroft was leaning against the door frame, sneering at me.

"Well, well. Aren't you two getting on well?"

"Get out Mycroft," I scowled, "I'll show John to guest room. Now go away."

"Well," he wrinkled his nose, "goodnight then. John, Sherlock."

He swept away, the door clicking softly behind him. I turned to John.

"Well thank god for that," I smiled, "Come on, I'll show you your room." John nodded, and then hesitated, a sheepish expression on his face.

"Sherlock, I don't, I mean... I didn't, I haven't brought anything with me, not even a toothbrush."

I smirked.

"Don't worry about that John, I'm sure something has been arranged." Before he had time to respond, I swept up the stairs, holding the door on my way out of the kitchen.

After showing John into the spare room and saying goodnight, I looked at my watch, five to eleven.

_Time to talk to Mycroft._

He was in his study. Of course. I slipped in without bothering to knock, the heavy oak door creaking softly on its hinges.

"Sherlock." He said clearly, without looking up.

"Mycroft." I replied, equally cold. He looked up, just for a moment, just long enough to say it.

"Try not to mess it up this time."

I turned and left without another word, too proud to let him see me cry.

I didn't turn on the light in my room, I didn't even get undressed. I just climbed in bed, and waited in vain for the sting of reality to give way to sleep. But it didn't. Sniffling quietly, I sat up, before remembering that my box was at school.

"Shit." I muttered into the darkness. "Sherlock you idiot."

"Sherlock?" I looked up sharply, surprised, John was standing by the door. _Oh christ._ "Sherlock are you alright? It's just, I heard you talking to yourself, and you were..." he paused, embarrassed, "Well... are you okay?" is sighed.

"I'm okay, John, don't be concerned please go back to bed." I flicked on the lamp and tried to smooth down my creased shirt.

"Sherlock?" His voice was soft and gentle, like his hands.

"Yes John?"

"Can I come in?" He looked at me uncertainly in the dim light, and I nodded. Navigating the mess of scientific paraphernalia and sheet music littering the floor, he sat down in the edge of the bed. "Is there anything I can do?" He whispered, reaching out for my hand in the dark.

Taking a deep breath, I replied.

"Yes." And leaning forward, I pressed my lips to his.


End file.
